Arnaldur Indridason - Oblivion

Caroline nodded. ‘He feels he owes me,’ she said quietly.

‘Oh?’

‘It was hard for me to turn to him for help but he’s behaved honourably. And I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘What... in what way does he owe you?’

‘He feels guilty.’

‘About what?’

‘Another woman.’

‘Another woman?’

‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘No, fair enough.’

‘I thought we had a good relationship until he started cheating on me,’ said Caroline. ‘I guess he’s still trying to make up for it. He’s the reason I’m here. I wanted to get as far away from him as I could and now he thinks it’s his fault that I’m in deep shit out here at the ends of the earth.’

‘What’s all this got to do with Hangar 885 and Wilbur Cain?’

‘I wasn’t supposed to tell you but it’s conceivable, just conceivable, that the NCT Hercules transports have been ferrying nuclear weapons from Thule and establishing them here. It’s also conceivable that the person responsible for security matters on this operation is none other than our friend Cain.’

‘Wilbur Cain?’

‘You got it.’

There were two men on duty at the filling station, one of whom looked to be in his late fifties. Rósanna’s cousin, presumably. The age was right at any rate. Erlendur sat in his car, trying to be inconspicuous, and watched the garage. The occasional vehicle pulled up by the petrol pumps and the men would fill it up and, if required, perform small additional tasks such as topping up the antifreeze or cleaning the windscreen. The older man, the cousin, pumped petrol and exchanged pleasantries with the customers while the younger one mainly took care of the till. The weather was cold, as it had been for several days now, and the pump attendant was wearing a down jacket and a baseball cap, both branded with the petrol station logo. He was round-shouldered and moved with slow deliberation as was common with manual labourers his age. In between customers, he took a seat behind the counter and whiled away the time with some activity that Erlendur couldn’t make out.

A car drove into the forecourt and the older man stood up and drew on his gloves. Rósanna had told Erlendur that Mensalder worked at one of the few garages in the capital that stayed open late. She didn’t know much about him as they hadn’t been in contact for years. Although they were first cousins, their families didn’t get along so they weren’t close. Erlendur had gone round to his flat first but, finding nobody home, had swung by the garage Rósanna mentioned. She had been keen to come too but Erlendur had dissuaded her, telling her not to worry. All he was doing was gathering information about Dagbjört’s case and the fact that her cousin had come into the picture wasn’t necessarily significant.

The garage, one of the largest in the city, was located on its eastern outskirts. After watching the place from a discreet distance for a while, Erlendur drove up to one of the pumps. He went into the shop and asked for petrol. The attendant he took to be Mensalder stood up and Erlendur saw that he had been playing patience. Mensalder asked if he should ‘fill ’er up’. When Erlendur said yes, the man put his gloves on again and went out to the pump. Erlendur looked around the shop which sold newspapers, magazines and a variety of motoring accessories such as windscreen wipers and ice scrapers, as well as shelves of cigarettes, cigars and sweets. Then he went outside in the wake of the attendant who had started filling his car. There was a rumble of traffic from the road. The man leaned against the car while the pump was working, glancing every now and then at the litre counter and price.

‘Quiet this evening,’ remarked Erlendur, automatically reaching for his cigarettes, then remembering where he was.

‘Yes,’ agreed the man. ‘It’s been pretty quiet. We were busier yesterday. It varies. Every day’s different, like anywhere else.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Erlendur.

The pump churned away and the man checked the litre counter. As he did so, Erlendur caught a glimpse of his face. He had several days’ worth of stubble on his lean cheeks, a small nose and bushy eyebrows. His nose was running.

‘Was she totally empty?’ asked the attendant.

‘Yes, almost.’

‘Nearly there, though it’s surprising what big tanks some of these little cars have.’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Need any new windscreen wipers or anything like that?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘We have to ask,’ said the man apologetically. ‘New rules. We have to ask the customers if they need anything else.’

‘I understand.’

‘We’re always learning something new.’

‘By the way, you wouldn’t be Mensalder, would you?’ asked Erlendur casually.

‘Yes, that’s me. Or that’s my name, anyway. Do we know each other?’

‘Rósanna’s cousin?’

‘I’ve got a cousin called Rósanna, yes. Why do you ask? Do you know her?’

‘Vaguely,’ said Erlendur. ‘Not well. But I happened to be chatting to her recently and your name came up.’

‘Oh, I see. What’s she up to these days?’

‘Not much,’ said Erlendur. ‘She mentioned you used to work out at Keflavík years ago.’

The pump clicked. The tank was full. Mensalder added a few more drops, his eye on the price. Erlendur thought he was trying to finish on a round number.

‘Yes, that’s right, I used to work on the base,’ he said. ‘Why... were you talking about me specially? Why did she mention me?’

‘Oh, we were just talking about the base and she said she had a cousin who used to work there and supplied her and her friends with goods he acquired from the Yanks. That he was very obliging like that.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Mensalder. ‘It was a long time ago, but it’s true, you could get hold of this and that, stuff you couldn’t find in town. Everything was in short supply in those days, but not for the GIs. Their stores were overflowing with goods. They had all the newest and best of everything.’

‘I bet.’

‘Saw my first fast-food joint there and that sort of thing.’

‘Wasn’t it tricky smuggling goods out of the area?’

‘Not for me,’ said Mensalder. ‘But then I didn’t operate on any big scale. Others might have done but I was never that greedy. I was employed directly by the army, so I was paid in dollars which was a real bonus. Until they put an end to that.’

‘Did you live on the base?’

‘Yes, quite a few of us did,’ said Mensalder, beginning to clean the windscreen with a scraper. ‘We were put up in army huts. A lot of the GIs lived in and around Keflavík. Rented basements or small flats. There was more mixing back then. Later they got worried about fraternisation and built accommodation for the soldiers on the base, and after that it all changed and... you know how it is — we’ve always avoided close contact with them.’

‘True. It must have been child’s play getting your hands on sought-after items if you actually lived on site. And could pay in dollars.’

‘Yes, that’s right. They had amazing shops and you could buy vodka and beer and cigarettes and all kinds of clothes that were almost impossible to find here in town. Things have changed a lot since then, you know. These days the shops are crammed with new stuff but it wasn’t like that back then.’

‘Records too?’ said Erlendur.

He could still only see part of the man’s face between his cap and jacket collar; the dull, weary expression of someone who had known little else in life but monotonous hard grind. Mensalder went about his work methodically, heavy on his feet and slow in his movements. He struck Erlendur as a pleasant man who seemed to enjoy reminiscing about the old days, even when talking to a stranger. Perhaps it was rare for people to show any interest in him, hence his willingness to talk when someone actually bothered to give him the time of day. Then again, maybe he was simply obeying orders in being polite to the customer. He spoke without emphasis, without varying his intonation, as if little took him by surprise these days and he had nothing exciting to tell.